


on different sides (of a line nobody drew)

by orphan_account



Category: Nowhere Boy, Nowhere Boy (2009), The Beatles
Genre: F/F, Femslash February, Incest, Self-Harm, Suicide, so i wrote The Beatles RPF, this was intended as Nowhere Boy fanfiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 04:41:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You have dreams about your names, engraved together every place. Mimi and Julia, Julia and Mimi, the Lennons of your life waltzing around you this damn rock’n’roll.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on different sides (of a line nobody drew)

She stole your heart and you stole her boy away.

That’s what you tell yourself in the mornings, when it gets too hard to get up. That’s what you tell yourself all throughout the day, and you look at her boy growing up, growing into your boy, and you tell yourself that to make you feel better.

You tell yourself that up until George’s death, and then you forget.

.

You pretend like you forget.

You have dreams about a redhead crashing through your front door and ruining your life, stealing you away like you’re a five-year-old brunette that will be a rock star one day.

You have dreams about your names, engraved together every place. Mimi and Julia, Julia and Mimi, the Lennons of your life waltzing around you this damn rock’n’roll.

You get so lonely.

.

That boy of yours, he doesn’t understand you, and you sure as Hell don’t get him, either.

The only consolation is: he does not get _her_.

And when you say no one gets her, what you really mean is: only you get her.

.

You lie to yourself every day so you can just get through the week, get through it without whacking your head on the wall in the bathtub.

Everyone thinks you’re strong and icy-cold, because they don’t understand you. They don’t see how pliant you are, how breakable.

They don’t see the things you do to yourself: the cuts and the scars and the nasty, nasty burns. The nails, clawing through your skin, tugging at your heartstrings and never helping you feel better.

Never making you feel worse, and that’s the point.

.

You escape.

You sleep through the day open- and weary-eyed, a shadow serving tea and making lunch and minding after that awful, awful boy of yours that wasn’t even yours to begin with. A shadow with a book and that steady music George always hated.

Sometimes you cheat and you listen to his radio programmes, but that hurts too.

You escape: you learn to enjoy John’s music. You listen to it while he’s away and you sway to the beat. Sometimes it feels like it might be getting better, _you_ might be getting better.

That’s usually when she crashes back into your life, crying and swearing and wanting for everything to orbit around her.

You remember –you make yourself remember– when you tried abiding by her desires and wishes, and how that was a thousand times worse. You force yourself to always steer in the same direction, the main road of life, clear and bright and _normal_.

The way you feel about her, you know, is the farthest thing from.

.

You pretend like you go on.

Neither of you tell John the truth: how his mother is a wild thing, never to be caught, never to be tamed. How his mother is a poor little child, weak and ill and never to be fixed. Neither of you tell your boy the truth: that you love him, both of you, as much as you can, as well as you know.

Neither of you tell each other the truth. How you loved her, and how she loved you. The year you were together, after her husband left, and way, way before you met George. All behind closed doors, the two fair sisters growing their boy up. Never to be told, never to be seen.

Neither of you tell each other the truth: how you still love each other, years and years after you learned she was never to be trusted, never to be cured. Years after years after you learned _you_ were never to be cured.

.

So you keep on pretending. The cuts get deeper, the lies get deeper, and never do you think about leaving her behind, and just starting a new life farther from her than the corner of the street.

John is a grown-up now, bright and open. Nothing here ties you up: not the house, empty of happiness, filled to the brim with sorrowful memories, nor the people, the gossip and the backtalk.

You could have a life anew, if ever you wanted to. But never, never do you wish your love away.

.

She said you’d be together again, and you know now what it is she meant. You feel like you’re standing over a ledge, all alone, and there is no way but forward.

You have no one left: George is long gone, John has left you. Julia has passed away a year and a half ago, and since then you have stood in your kitchen looking for strength you did not find uncountable, innumerable times.

For once in your life you stop pretending, and when you do go out, it’s loudly sobbing, until your back aches, until your throat is sore and you barely can see through your tears anymore.

You’re standing over a ledge, and the pain is deep and piercing, and you know where you hope this pain will take you, but you don’t know for sure.


End file.
